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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26109406">Exit Wounds</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/giidas/pseuds/giidas'>giidas</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magicians (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>12k of feelings and basically no plot, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, BECAUSE FUCK THAT SHIT, Communication, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Ignores The Magicians Season 5, Love Confessions, M/M, References to Past Suicide Attempt, Slow Build, Suicidal Ideation, idiots to lovers, kissus interruptus, the rest of the gang also appears or is mentioned briefly</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:40:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,742</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26109406</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/giidas/pseuds/giidas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Shut your stupid mouth, Q, of course you’re not fine, none of us are fine,” Margo spits, tugging at his hair to make him look up, look at her big eyes filled with worry and a hint of fear. He looks behind her and sees Eliot, standing back, keeping his distance. Margo moves her head as if to shield Eliot from view and Quentin frowns at her.</p><p>Or: 12k of healing, of a slow recovery, of finding your way forward in the <i>after</i>.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Margo Hanson &amp; Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater &amp; Margo Hanson, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>107</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Exit Wounds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/decideophobia/gifts">decideophobia</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>most of this fic was written months ago, while continuously listening to Placebo, and so the title has (for the very first time in my fic writing history, lmao) been decided before this work was even finished. thanks, Placebo, you saved me hours of stressing, it's truly much appreciated.<br/>written for decideophobia - without her unweavering support and help and counsel, this would never have seen the light of day. she wanted simultaneous proposal fluff and this is -- not that, lmao, but hopefully it spakrs joy anyway!<br/>and as always this would not be what it is withou Monika-- thank you for tolerating my non-use of question marks and abuse of tenses!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They’re both different, <em>after. </em></p><p>Eliot sees the bruises on Quentin’s neck and turns white, then green, swallowing convulsively. Quentin turns away, tries to leave, but Eliot makes as if to grab his sleeve before he stops himself, just shy of touching the material of the hoodie, just shy of touching Quentin.</p><p>“No, don’t, I—” he closes his eyes for a moment and then looks back up, at Quentin, still white as a sheet, “—I need to know. What else?” <em>What else did he do? What else are you trying to hide?</em></p><p>He can read the questions in his eyes, can see that Eliot won’t stop until he knows everything. And Quentin is still a little out of it, still on the wrong side of tired and hungry and thirsty and shaky, his body running on adrenaline, his mind blissfully blank now that it’s not just Eliot’s body here, in front of him, but <em>Eliot. </em>And so he nods, and tells Eliot everything.</p><p>~~~</p><p>They tell him he’d collapsed right after he left Eliot’s room and that Eliot had opened his stitches when he tried to get up to get to him.</p><p>“He,” Margo clears her throat, starts again, “we put you in the same room, but I can—Q, if you don’t want to—”</p><p>He barely <em>wants </em>anything, these days, but he thought this one was obvious. Maybe not so much, maybe not when they have all been ignoring each other, all focused on their own goals, their own battles, these last few days that felt like months. So much for actions speaking louder than words, he thinks to himself, only a little bitterly.</p><p>“I wanna stay here, with Eliot,” he tells her, and turns his head to look at him, lying still in his own hospital bed, probably asleep. Or not, by the unsubtle hitch in his breathing.</p><p>“El,” Q whispers. Margo makes a noise as if she wants to shush him, but Eliot’s face crumbles, just a little bit, disappears behind a big hand, his fingertips press into skin, turning it white with how strongly they dig in. His shoulders are shaking, Quentin notices as he tries to reach out, but his bed is too far, and before he can try and rip out his IV, Margo slaps his hand away, kicks her heels off and <em>pushes.</em> The wheels make a horrible noise that has Quentin wincing. The bed lurches and he has to scramble to grab his IV stand before the needle is torn out of his arm anyway. There is still a small gap when she’s done, but she huffs a satisfied breath and something twists in Quentin’s chest. <em>Margo.</em></p><p>Eliot has almost composed himself in the couple of seconds it took her to get them close. Quentin fumbles for Eliot’s hand, but he doesn’t know what to do with the way Eliot is trying to swallow down the sobs that are making his whole body shake. Doesn’t know how to make it all okay again, how to tell him—</p><p>“Move over, dumbass,” Margo warns before she’s climbing into the bed on Eliot’s other side, carefully lying down next to him. Quentin can’t see her face when she says, “you are both <em>grounded, </em>you are not leaving my sight for at least six weeks, <em>minimum,</em> do you hear me, fuckfaces?”</p><p>The noise that Eliot makes can hardly be called a laugh, Quentin thinks, but he has Eliot’s hand in his, big and warm and shaking just a little, and that’s something.</p><p>He thinks Margo continues her lecture, getting more colourful with her threats. He thinks she starts telling Eliot a little about what happened in Fillory, but Quentin is too tired to ask questions, too tired to pay attention, too tired to do anything but hold on to Eliot. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but Eliot is still right there next to him, holding his hand, when he wakes up.</p><p>~~~</p><p>They’re reluctant, all three of them, to go back, but there is nothing for it. There’s nowhere else to go.</p><p>The apartment manages what Eliot himself couldn’t, and triggers Quentin’s first flashback. He sees Eliot standing by the windows, leaning quite heavily on his cane, and suddenly the Monster is back and Quentin can barely breathe, can barely move.</p><p>Time seems to stop and his vision tunnels and all he can see is a graphic tee, unkempt too-long hair, droplets of red on a cheek, and more red under nails, in the whorls of fingerprints.</p><p>He can’t be seeing that, though, because Eliot’s back is to him and besides, he was wearing a deep blue shirt, a patterned vest. Margo’s in the kitchen, too, Quentin remembers. Jules is MIA still, and Kady is off on hedge business. He thinks Alice is at the Library but he might be wrong. He tries to focus on that, tries to repeat the whereabouts of all of them, only remembering Penny on the third go around. He can sort of breathe by then and his vision’s stopped tunneling at some point, too. He tries to take a slightly bigger breath and hopes that his face is not as white as suspects it is. His head is spinning, just a little bit, and the couch looks like the best thing he’s ever seen—</p><p>“Q?”</p><p>That’s Eliot, Quentin thinks, not looking in his direction, falling sideways into the armchair instead, bringing his knees to his chest, hiding his face.</p><p>He thinks he hears Eliot call for Margo and the rush of footsteps and then Margo’s voice, fast-paced and worried, of all things. He’s fine though, he made it, they made it, all of them, so there’s nothing—</p><p>“Shut your stupid mouth, Q, of course you’re not fine, none of us are fine,” Margo spits, tugging at his hair to make him look up, look at her big eyes filled with worry and a hint of fear. He looks behind her and sees Eliot, standing back, keeping his distance. Margo moves her head as if to shield Eliot from view and Quentin frowns at her.</p><p>“What was it,” she asks, but without a question mark.</p><p>“What was what.”</p><p>Margo makes an insulted noise at his poor attempt at evasion.</p><p>Quentin picks at the sleeve of his hoodie. He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t need to. She’s Margo, she’s probably figured it out already. “A flashback,” he says to his knees, “and like, maybe, a little bit of a panic attack.”</p><p>Eliot stays very still and very quiet.</p><p>Margo sits on the floor by the armchair, her shoulder pressing into Quentin’s legs, and starts browsing apartment listings on her phone.</p><p>~~~</p><p>He finds the pack of cigarettes on the balcony. Trying to remember when he left it there feels like digging through memories of a past life, but his hands move on autopilot and before he knows it, there’s a cigarette hanging from his lips, smoke burning down his throat as he inhales deeply and fills his lungs with it. He forces it out through his nose, the feeling more unpleasant than he remembers.</p><p>The warning label on this particular pack tells him that smoking can cause a slow and painful death. He snorts at that, takes another drag, feeling the nicotine hit his system, dull the burn in his lungs and throat. He thought the familiarity might make him relax but it doesn’t. He’s tense and his fingers shake and his foot is tapping and he doesn’t really want to pick up this habit again, because it had a purpose before, didn’t it. He’s tired of trying to figure out if all the things he did before were just a slow and sure way of killing himself, or if they were just a habit. So many people smoke, after all, and not all of them are suicidal.</p><p>He’s thinking about relaxing his fingers and letting the cigarette drop to the ground when the balcony door creaks. He doesn’t even need to raise his head from where it’s slumped forward, because the shoes and the cane are an immediate giveaway as to who just joined him. Quentin holds up the pack, unprompted.</p><p>For Eliot, it’s an old, comforting habit, one that the Monster didn’t indulge in, didn’t see the point of, probably.</p><p>Eliot doesn’t touch him, doesn’t let their fingers connect, just carefully takes out a single cigarette and lights it with a tut. Quentin tries not to think about that as he fiddles with the pack, as he turns it over and over in his hands.</p><p>
  <em>Smoking can cause a slow and painful death.</em>
</p><p>There’s so much he wants to say, but his brain won’t cooperate. Quentin presses the heel of his hand into his eye, sees stars.</p><p>“Am I making it worse,” Eliot says into the New York not-so-quiet evening.</p><p>Quentin’s head jerks up, hair falling into his eyes. Eliot is not looking at him, is standing a carefully measured distance away, not blocking the balcony door, <em>not blocking the only escape route,</em> Quentin’s brain supplies. His mouth twists, the cigarette that somehow found its way between his lips again barely hanging on.</p><p>“If I’m—”</p><p>“You’re not,” Quentin cuts in, looking at Eliot’s profile, at his closed eyes, downturned mouth. He wants to reach out and touch the tense line of Eliot’ shoulders, but he’s not— they’ve been careful not to, since they came back from the hospital. They’ve been cultivating this deliberate distance, stepping around each other like they’re in a fucking Jane Austen novel. Quentin no longer knows who’s taking cues from whom, doesn’t know if he’s the one who’s supposed to take the first step or if he’s waiting on Eliot.</p><p>“If you’re sure,” Eliot says, his voice steady, but only barely so. He puts his cigarette out on the railing and makes eye contact, briefly, before he opens the balcony door again. Eliot pauses on the threshold, shoulders slumping forward. His voice, when he speaks, betrays just how much this has been affecting him, too. “Q,” he says, as if that one letter is all that he has left and something inside of Quentin shudders and breaks.</p><p>His eyes find the pack of cigarettes again. <em>Smoking can cause a slow and painful death. </em>His eyes sting and the bold black font becomes wobbly.</p><p>“I’m sure, El,” he whispers.</p><p>It’s one of the very few things he’s sure about, these days.</p><p>~~~</p><p>There are more <em>episodes,</em> as everyone refers to them.</p><p>Kady brings him a flask of something, two weeks in. She hands it over, doesn’t look at him.</p><p>“Two sips in the morning, one in the evening,” she says as she sits down next to him.</p><p>“I—” Quentin looks at the flask and there’s a pang inside of him, and he thinks, huh, some feelings other than exhaustion are maybe slowly coming back online. He’s still too numb, but finally he can tell that he <em>is </em>numb. “—can I, with my meds, you think?” he ends up asking.</p><p>“I checked, you’re fine,” she says, matter of fact, and steals the remote from him.</p><p>He takes two sips and puts the flask in the pocket of his hoodie.</p><p>~~~</p><p>It takes a month for Margo to find a suitable place for them, and then another two weeks before everything’s arranged and they can finally move in.</p><p>Quentin is a little worried for Margo, and isn’t that a revelation. They’ve been fiddling with the dosage of his meds and it seems they’ve found a good balance, and now he <em>worries </em>about Margo. The dark circles she can’t quite hide with makeup anymore, the distant look in her eyes when she thinks they’re not looking, the way she falls asleep with her head propped on someone’s shoulder or her feet in someone’s lap but the light stays on in her bedroom through the night.</p><p>He isn’t the only one affected by the whole thing, he knows. Then again, it’s one thing knowing it and another seeing it torture your best friends, too.</p><p>When all their stuff is moved in, she orders pizza and falls asleep, head on a pillow and feet in Eliot’s lap. Quentin looks at them and Eliot must feel his gaze because he looks away from Margo, meets Quentin’s eyes.</p><p>“Does she talk to you about it?”</p><p>Eliot looks back down at Margo.</p><p>“Sometimes,” he says, “she misses Fillory, but she doesn’t know if she can ever—” he sighs and shakes his head.</p><p>“We’ll find a way,” Quentin tells him, because they always do, even if they rarely get exactly what they wanted when they started out, and the price they end up paying is higher than they could have imagined. Sometimes higher than what they would have been willing to pay, if they knew up front.</p><p>Eliot is looking at him like he’s thinking along the same lines, eyes a little skeptical, brow a little furrowed.</p><p>“What if we don’t?” he ends up asking.</p><p>“Then we’ll find her a different kingdom to rule,” Quentin says, like it’s that easy. Eliot snorts and Quentin feels his lips turn up at the corners, forming a tentative smile.</p><p>Maybe the answer is Fillory, maybe it’s not, but he’s sure that between the three of them, the <em>seven </em>of them, they’re going to figure it out.</p><p>~~~</p><p>There is an empty space between Eliot and Quentin, big enough to fit another person and then some. A buffer zone, an oh-so-carefully crafted distance. It was occupied by Margo, who took it upon herself to physically fill the awkward spaces the two of them leave between their bodies wherever they go. She’s been understanding at first, but she is losing what little patience she has, Quentin notices.</p><p>She’s making more popcorn for herself, now, the space she left behind on the sofa somehow bigger than it seemed before she sat down.</p><p>Quentin looks at Eliot, at his comfortable but still very distinguished looking cardigan, at his chinos and his bare ankles and his socked feet —<em>‘I refuse to listen to you complain about having the sniffles, put your fucking socks on, Waugh’</em>— and he’s had quite frankly enough.</p><p>He’s—This is not what—Eliot’s never had any issue with touching Quentin. It was always the other way around, Quentin thinks. Reaching out? Not one of his strong suits, he’s aware, thanks. And they’re friends, they’re—before he psyches himself up to do anything at all, Margo is back, bowl of popcorn in her hands.</p><p>Quentin looks at her, gathering all his courage, looks at the empty space where she was sitting before, and shakes his head just a little.</p><p>Margo quirks an eyebrow.</p><p>He fidgets a little bit, can’t help it, but looks pointedly at the empty armchair.</p><p>Margo smirks and sits down in the armchair, popcorn in her lap, socked feet on the coffee table.</p><p>Blood rushes in his ears. He’s fine. He needs to do this. He <em>wants </em>to do this. Quentin doesn’t look at Eliot as he takes a deep breath and shuffles closer to him on the sofa, finally bridging the awful distance; he doesn’t look at Eliot as he takes his hand and uses it to pull Eliot’s arm around his shoulders; he doesn’t look at Eliot as he settles against his side, making himself as small as he can, his feet under Eliot’s thigh, his head on Eliot’s collarbone.</p><p>Eliot keeps very still, so still that Quentin puts a hand on his ribs just to make sure he’s breathing.</p><p>All the tension drains out of him when Eliot takes a shuddering breath and his fingertips press into Quentin’s shoulder, pulling their bodies impossibly closer.</p><p>He turns and hides his face in the soft material of Eliot’s cardigan.</p><p>“I missed you,” he whispers, like a secret.</p><p>Eliot makes a noise, small and wounded, and buries his face in Quentin’s hair.</p><p>~~~</p><p>It’s a first step, Quentin knows, when he thinks about it as he tries and fails to fall asleep later than night. The bed is too big, too empty, too everything. It’s a first step and it will take time but he wishes it wouldn’t because he’s just so fucking <em>tired</em> of this limbo he’s stuck in. But he’s also not quite ready to have Eliot tell him no, again. He’d rather have the limbo for a little longer, rather have this than knowing they won’t get another chance at it, at being together.</p><p>He thinks that, maybe, after everything, Eliot— Well, he almost doesn’t dare even think it, to be honest.</p><p>He kicks at the covers and flops on his back, tries not to look at the clock because that never helps.</p><p>And so he stares at the ceiling instead.</p><p>He closes his eyes, and sees stars, an entire universe full of them.</p><p>He takes slow, deep breaths. The stars don’t go away.</p><p>He opens his eyes but it’s all he can see now. The Mirror.</p><p>His thoughts don’t stray that way often, but when they do, Quentin has a hard time stopping them. They’re like a speeding train, hurtling past all his coping mechanisms, and all the behavioural therapy in the world can’t stop it once it gets going.</p><p>The slow breaths keep him calm, at least, and he knows he has to deal with it at some point. He’s just been trying really hard to make sure that the <em>at some point </em>is, you know, <em>later</em>.</p><p>He gets stuck on The Moment, the flood of images that had him turning around, reaching out and grabbing a hold of an outstretched hand. Eliot’s wrinkled face creased in a smile, Margo frowning but with laughter in her eyes. His dad and Teddy, Ariel, Julia, Alice, Kady, Penny. A lightning fast slideshow of the people he cares about, the ones that have played a huge part in his life. His <em>lives.</em></p><p>The appeal of The Mirror, of death, was tingling through his entire being. <em>Just end it,</em> it whispered, <em>you’ve done so much and you fought so hard, you deserve the rest, you deserve a break, finally, you deserve to not feel this sadness, this emptiness. It will be fast and you’ll be at peace.</em></p><p>The thing is— The thing was and still is, now, that at the core of him, there’s the tiniest of sparks that has him admitting himself as an inpatient instead of ending it all. That has him keep breathing, even in his darkest moments, when he can’t think of a single reason to stay.. He thought it was gone when the Monster told him Eliot was dead, which, after the news about his dad— but the moment in the park was like a punch to the gut, a wake up call.</p><p>And so he fought. He fought for himself and he fought for his dad and for Eliot and for all of them. He turned around, and he reached out.</p><p>He’s curled on his side, shaking, and the pillow under his face is wet, but it feels like something. Like another first step in the right direction, he thinks to himself.</p><p>It feels like it takes him a while, after that, to fall asleep but then he blinks his eyes open and it’s morning. He wouldn’t say he feels well rested, but he counts the night as a success anyway, his mind clinging to the vague memory of a dream about Ariel and Teddy and Eliot, always Eliot.</p><p>The news about Fillory comes a couple of days later.</p><p>Margo loves Fillory, which isn’t exactly news to Quentin, but seeing her agonize over the possibility of never being allowed back there hurts in a way he wasn’t expecting. Turns out they might have inadvertently fucked up the timelines while trying to fix what they screwed up when they were fixing what they— anyway, Alice checked, and then Penny 23 travelled and came back about as disconcerted as any of them’s ever seen him</p><p>He looks around the room and his eyes settle on Margo. “Alice was right, something’s fucked up.”</p><p>Quentin’s eyes snap to Margo then, too, and he’s stepping towards her, closely followed by Eliot, before he knows what he’s doing. She grabs for his forearm when he’s within reach and her fingernails dig deep into the muscle there. Her other hand finds Eliot’s and Quentin sees how tight her grip is by the way her knuckles turn white with it.</p><p>Alice is speaking, the rapid fire cadence of her voice as familiar to him as anything, but his brain is not processing anything she’s saying. Kady jumps in, Penny adds some words here and there, but Quentin and Margo and Eliot are in their own bubble, trying to keep afloat, trying to keep one another from falling apart.</p><p>She’s been their rock, Quentin realizes suddenly, when they both needed someone to lean on, she was there, keeping it together, for them. It’s high time they returned the favor.</p><p>~~~</p><p>Margo spends the next three days in bed.</p><p>Eliot takes care of cooking because Quentin is shit at it and Margo won’t eat anything he makes, but she loves Quentin’s coffee, so he’s the one in charge of that. And of movie selection, too, the most important task of all, Margo tells him.</p><p>Eliot despairs at the amount of nerdy movies he’s being forced to watch, but then he crawls under the covers and pushes the laptop with his foot so that he can see the screen better and Quentin knows the complaining is mostly for show.</p><p>Margo doesn’t talk about it, doesn’t mention Fillory even once, and Quentin’s not sure if they should make her, if that’s something she needs, when she’s the one always pushing others. He’s not super good at this, he realizes.</p><p>“If we push now, Q, it’s not gonna be pretty,” Eliot tells him when he brings it up.</p><p>“So do we just wait?” Quentin asks, looking up at Eliot.</p><p>Eliot sighs, turns down the heat under the last pan that’s still bubbling away on the stove. Quentin thinks it’s pasta, maybe. He takes a step towards Quentin, leans a hip against the edge of the counter and pokes Quentin with what is hopefully the clean end of the spatula.</p><p>“She’s wallowing,” he says, “she’s mourning, she’s grieving, she’s finally letting herself feel all of it.” He’s looking at Quentin, eyebrows raised just a little, his free hand flying in the air to emphasize his words.</p><p>“Okay,” Quentin says and bats away the spatula that’s still poking at him.</p><p>“She’s a bad bitch,” Eliot tells him, like Quentin needs reminding, “but from what I understand she barely had time to process, and shit has been hitting the fan, <em>hard,</em> for a good long while now.”</p><p>He looks away, spatula hanging from his fingers. He tries to hide his expression but they’re too close, and Quentin sees something shift in his eyes.</p><p>“Don’t,” Quentin tells him, because he knows where his mind is going, recognizes an Eliot in a guilt spiral thanks to fifty years of practice in all things Eliot. He can very well imagine all the <em>if onlys</em> and <em>what ifs</em> that might torture him for the rest of his life. Well, if Quentin has any say in it, they won’t get the chance, but that’s— He reaches out, puts his hand just under Eliot’s breastbone, and waits.</p><p>Eliot closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and his long fingers encircle Quentin’s wrist, keeping his hand where it is. He presses into it, digging the heel of Quentin’s hand into his solar plexus.</p><p>“I— I know,” he whispers into the space between them, eyes still closed. “But what you did, what she did—“</p><p>“Were our choices, and we would both do it again,” Quentin says, no hesitation. <em>We would both risk our lives for you, again,</em> he doesn’t say, doesn’t <em>need</em> to.</p><p>“That just makes it worse, Q, <em>god,</em>” Eliot says, voice like gravel.</p><p>“We keep having this same conversation,” Quentin replies, his voice too light, his fingers tapping a rhythm on Eliot’s chest.</p><p>“Yeah, and somehow it gets more horrible each time I hear it, I wonder why,” Eliot shoots back, sardonic, and finally looks at Quentin. When Quentin opens his mouth as if to reply, Eliot hurries to add, eyes wide, “Don’t you dare answer that, it was a rhetorical question.”</p><p>“Uh huh.” Quentin lets his elbow relax and Eliot moves forward with it, one of his hands finding its way onto Quentin’s waist. He closes his eyes and breathes in Eliot’s aftershave, the by now comforting mix of spices that seems so familiar and yet so new every single time he gets close enough.</p><p>“We will have to talk ab—”</p><p>“I know,” Eliot interrupts him softly, “just, please—” and instead of finishing the thought he moves away, looks into Quentin’s eyes with something akin to pleading. Quentin sighs and makes a face but permits it, letting his hand drop from Eliot’s chest. The water in the last pot is bubbling dangerously now and Eliot turns back to tend to it.</p><p>“The hell are you two doing in here,” Margo’s voice carries down the hallway, and then she’s there, leaning against Eliot and poking at the numerous pots and pans, smelling things and making appreciative noises. Eliot looks at Quentin and raises an eyebrow as if to say, <em>see, told you she needs time.</em></p><p>Quentin rolls his eyes.</p><p>“Where’s my coffee, Coldwater?” Margo asks one of the pans, dipping a finger in a sauce and hissing a little at how hot it is. Eliot bats her hand away with a <em>tsk.</em></p><p>“It’s 9pm?” Quentin tells her, confused.</p><p>“Yeah?” she shoots back, looking at him as if he’s slow and should do better.</p><p>“Uh, okay.” Looks like he’s making more coffee and they’re in for another long and mostly sleepless night and numerous cat naps during the day, then.</p><p>“Nope,” Eliot jumps in and then physically steps in between Quentin and the coffee maker, “no more coffee for anyone, we are not pulling an all nighter again.” He’s holding eye contact with Quentin and looks like he’s <em>willing </em>Quentin to understand the game he’s playing, but then Eliot rolls his eyes, widens them almost comically and presses his lips together.</p><p>It takes Quentin a little too long to understand that he’s supposed to keep his mouth shut and Margo has by then noticed their not so subtle exchange. She rolls her eyes but there is something about her posture that seems— Quentin’s not quite sure what it is but she looks softer, as if all of her edges were smudged, undefined.</p><p>Eliot’s whole body language shifts, too, unconsciously mimicking hers, and Quentin feels a little lost. He’s not sure this is a moment he should be here for, after all.</p><p>Margo shakes her head as if to get her mind back on track. She has to get on her tiptoes to reach the cabinet with the plates. She takes out three of them. Puts them down on the kitchen island, one by one. Pushes them a little this way and that.</p><p>“Bambi,” Eliot says, very gently, as he takes a step closer to her, “we’re all here, way more fucked up than we were before, but <em>all here.</em> You did it.”</p><p>Her shoulders slump and she grimaces, eyes screwed shut and mouth pressed into a thin line.</p><p>Quentin sees Eliot’s almost smile before he starts talking.</p><p>“Margo can have a little—“</p><p>Margo groans and her fist connects with Eliot’s chest. “Shut the fuck up, that is <em>horrible.</em>” She presses her forehead to his chest, lets Eliot hug her without protest.</p><p>“Hey, nerdface,” Quentin hears her voice, muffled by Eliot, and can’t help the huff he makes. He steps closer to the two of them, joins the hug and thinks that everything feels a little less fucked up than it did yesterday, here, with Eliot’s arm around Quentin’s waist and Margo’s head under Quentin’s chin.</p><p>Eliot starts humming something and Quentin can feel the vibrations of it in his own chest. He can’t place the melody, but Margo seems to deflate at it, all her muscles going loose. Eliot sighs and kisses her hair, leaning his head against Quentin’s.</p><p>“I can’t fucking sleep,” Margo rasps and Eliot hums a little more, whispers a soft <em>I know,</em> squeezes the both of them even tighter to his chest. She doesn’t say <em>alone,</em> doesn’t mention the nightmares. She doesn’t need to, because they all have them, Quentin suspects, custom tailored by their subconscious to deliver as much pain and anguish as possible. He’s not new to nightmares or insomnia, knows how to manage on criminally little sleep. It would still be nice to have more than one fucking night a week of uninterrupted sleep. Waking up every hour, nauseous and covered in a cold sweat, trying to calm himself by reaching for a body that i<em>s not there,</em> gets old fast, he thinks.</p><p>“Me neither,” Eliot confesses and Quentin’s head shoots up, mind back in the here and now. He knew this, he did, but he did not expect an outright <em>confirmation. </em>“Don’t look at me like that, Q, I know you noticed,” Eliot adds, not looking at him.</p><p>Quentin has to clear his throat before he can speak. “Me three,” he says, instead of <em>yes of course I noticed, you’re the only thing I always notice</em> because this is not the time nor the place. Then again, it never seems to be the time or the place, for the two of them.</p><p>He feels Margo square her shoulders, as if this is all the sharing and caring she can take, and then she pushes them away just a little. “This was great, but I’m so hungry I could eat a horse and the food’s not getting any warmer.” She turns away, her bun bobbing, flyaway strands of hair sticking out from it every which way.</p><p>Eliot’s arm is still around Quentin, their bodies pressed close, and Quentin is sure he’s projecting his own reluctance to move away onto Eliot, sure it’s his mind playing tricks on him when Eliot’s face turns just the slightest bit in his direction, eyes half closed, as if he wants to lean into Quentin, press his nose into Quentin’s hair the way he used to.</p><p>Eliot squeezes Quentin’s waist and steps away, helping Margo with the food.</p><p>They eat — Quentin pushes his food around his plate at first, but eats half of what was on it after Eliot’s questioning look — and then go back to bed to watch another movie.</p><p>Quentin begs for a break halfway through. He uses the bathroom, drinks a glass of water and stares into the fridge for way too long, hoping something appetizing will materialize. It doesn’t. He sighs and grabs some additional snacks from the pantry and another bottle of water and heads back to Margo’s bedroom.</p><p>He stops, just shy of pushing the door open, when he hears Eliot’s voice.</p><p>“—was supposed to be braver, Bambi,” he says, sounding defeated, disappointed in himself.</p><p>Margo sighs and then there’s shuffling as if Margo is sitting up.</p><p>“Men are so fucking dense, I have no idea how you ever accomplish anything.”</p><p>“That is <em>not—</em>”</p><p>“Really, El?” There’s a beat of silence and Quentin wishes he could see their expressions. He leans closer, trying to get a glimpse of them without making his sneaking obvious. “He would die for you, El, but more importantly, he fucking <em>lived </em>for you.”</p><p>That makes Quentin stumble. He knocks his shoulder into the door, which slams open, making him lose his balance. The snacks and the bottle of water go flying. He somehow catches himself on the doorknob and when he looks up, all the snacks are hovering in the air and two pairs of unimpressed eyes are trained on him.</p><p>“Uhh, hey?” Quentin says to the room at large. Margo shakes her head and Eliot moves the snacks closer and drops them on the bed. He looks at Quentin.</p><p>“I feel like I should ask how much you’ve heard, but—“</p><p>“I didn’t,” he says, and at Eliot’s raised eyebrows, adds, “I mean I did hear, uhh, some stuff but I— didn’t live for you.”</p><p>Something shatters in Eliot’s eyes, there and gone in a flash, and Quentin thinks Margo is looking at them but his eyes stay on Eliot.</p><p>“That’s not what I— what I mean is, I didn’t live just for you,” Quentin hurries to explain himself before he does more damage, “I lived for my dad, and Teddy.” He can’t help the way his voice catches in his throat at the memory of their son, and he sees Eliot swallow and look away for a moment. Quentin takes a breath to steady himself.</p><p>“And Margo, and Julia, and Alice and Kady and even Penny, I guess,” he confesses. He didn’t think they’d be having this conversation today, didn’t think it was something he would share so soon, and with more than just his therapist and Eliot, too. But it also feels right, like something they should both know, maybe.</p><p>They’re both looking at him now, a little shell shocked. Eliot’s mouth is hanging slightly open, as if he wanted to say something but wasn’t able to find the words. Quentin thinks now that he’s started, he might as well not leave out what, at least to him, was the most important part of his own little revelation.</p><p>He lets go of the doorknob and his hands don’t shake. He’s not okay yet, but he’s on his way, he thinks. He looks from his hands to Eliot, who’s helped him through so many spirals at the Mosaic, he looks into those eyes he knows better than anyone’s, and manages to form the words.</p><p>“And for myself.”</p><p>Saying it out loud, for some reason, makes the truth of those words resonate and Quentin swallows through the tightness of his throat. He’s not gonna cry here, they have a movie to finish.</p><p>Margo and Eliot are both looking at him, and Quentin wishes his hair was still long. It was a convenient shield and he misses the comfort of it terribly, in general, and especially now. But his hair is shorter and besides, he <em>can </em>do this. He’s already done the hardest part.</p><p>Margo looks proud and happy and Eliot, Eliot looks—</p><p>Quentin looks away from him, tugs at the hem of his t-shirt to distract himself. He hears the duvets rustle and when he looks back up, Eliot is trying to escape his duvets-and-snacks prison. He manages to extricate himself and steps closer to Quentin and then offers him a hand.</p><p>Quentin takes it, looking at their fingers, tangled together. Eliot is quiet, still lost for words it seems, which is good, because Quentin realizes he has more to say.</p><p>“You shouldn’t— you shouldn’t have to live with that,” he tells Eliot, or his shoulder, to be more specific, “with the weight of my life on your shoulders, I mean.” He raises a hand to hide his eyes, makes a face. “Jesus, that sounds so— “</p><p>Eliot stops him with a squeeze of his fingers.</p><p>“Q,” he says, voice wrecked, eyes bright.</p><p>Quentin looks at him and doesn’t know how he ever thought— “You don’t owe me anything,” he whispers, feels almost compelled to say it out loud, so that Eliot <em>knows.</em></p><p>Eliot’s expression crumbles like a house of cards. “Oh, Q,” he says and crushes Quentin against his chest, hugs him so tight Quentin fears his bones might crack.</p><p>Margo clears her throat.</p><p>Eliot lets go of Quentin slowly, as if he wants him to know he’s not jumping back, that he’s not spooked or ashamed or embarrassed. His eyes are a little wet, but then, so are Quentin’s, so, yeah. Only Margo can judge them.</p><p>“You guys know how to pick a time and a venue,” Margo tells them, opening a bag of Doritos and popping one in her mouth. Quentin sees Eliot make a face at her from the corner of his eye.</p><p>Then Eliot freezes. Quentin turns to him and sees his eyes narrow and then he’s pointing a finger at Margo in accusation.</p><p>“You planned this,” Eliot almost hisses.</p><p>Quentin eyes jump to Margo and then back to Eliot.</p><p>Margo pops another Dorito in her mouth. The crunch of it is deafening in the absolute silence of the room. Eliot huffs out a breath but his eyes are narrowed, not leaving her face, not willing to break the staring match they’ve got going.</p><p>“And if I did,” Margo says with a little elegant shrug, every bit the king she is, even in sweats and a messy bun, half-lying down and crunching Doritos.</p><p>Eliot mulls that over for what seems like an eternity to Quentin. And then he deflates and the tension breaks just like that. Eliot moves to the bed, getting back in, and Margo winks at Quentin when his back is turned, as if Quentin was in on this, which. Yeah, he really wasn’t.</p><p>Eliot settles into his spot and looks at Quentin.</p><p>“Well?”</p><p>“Uh, okay,” Quentin says. He sits down, leaving a careful distance between himself and Eliot. Margo crunches on her Doritos, self-satisfaction radiating from her every pore. Quentin should probably be surprised or even angry that she planned something like this, but then again, who knows how long it would’ve taken them to talk about it, about this specifically, if she hadn't pushed just a little? And she didn’t force the words out of his mouth, Quentin thinks to himself, she just gave him the opportunity, really.</p><p>Jesus, he’d hate to get on her wrong side and have her use all of that strategizing and subtle manipulation against him. This way, even if she’s not plotting <em>with </em>him, it generally ends up working out to his benefit, which honestly is good enough for him.</p><p>The movie is already on so Quentin tries to shake off the remaining thoughts about what the hell just happened and concentrate on the small screen. It takes a little while, but he ends up slumped in the same position as earlier, and before he knows it, the credits are rolling and Eliot is bemoaning the fact that he has watched yet another nerdy movie he never wanted to see and all the references he will now understand and will never be able to get out of his brain as long as he shall live. Quentin snorts because he might have been able to fool someone else, but certainly not Margo or Quentin, who both know he was the one dropping most of the references before they’ve even finished these, because he’s seen <em>the original trilogy, thank you very much. </em></p><p>They don’t have to talk about the fact that they’re not leaving Margo to sleep alone tonight. Eliot closes the laptop and sends it to Margo’s dresser with a flick of his fingers. The only light source is the small Ikea lamp Margo found delightful online but a little disappointing when it arrived, sitting on a bookshelf, casting warm purplish light around the room. Quentin lies on his side of the frankly enormous bed and a wave of calm washes over him. Margo is on the other side, Eliot in the middle, and Quentin closes his eyes, breathes out, doesn’t think about stars or a mirror or droplets of blood on a cheek.</p><p>“Not sure I like the new kid they got instead of Marsden, but McAvoy and Fassbender? Talk about A+++ casting choices,” Eliot says, startling Quentin out of his thoughts.</p><p>“That fake Paris though,” Margo tells them, distaste dripping from every word.</p><p>“Absolutely horrible,” Eliot agrees.</p><p>Quentin hums and doesn’t think about the setting but what about the two friends turned enemies turned tentative friends again, sitting at a table, playing a game of chess—</p><p>“Do you think they fucked?” Margo asks.</p><p>Quentin groans.</p><p>“Are we talking characters or actors,” Eliot shoots back, completely serious.</p><p>“Does it matter?”</p><p>“In this case? Not even a little bit.” The smirk in Eliot’s voice is absolutely evident and Quentin just really doesn’t want to think about those two fucking right now, thank you. He can do that in the privacy of his own bedroom at a later date. He was always convinced they did—</p><p>“First movie, before the beach scene,” he says before he can stop himself.</p><p>There’s a beat of silence, then another.</p><p>“Yes,” Eliot and Margo say, in unison.</p><p>“Everything would make so much more sense that way,” Eliot adds.</p><p>“A break-up slash divorce not because they don’t love each other but because their politics don’t align,” Margo whispers, as if testing the theory out for herself.</p><p>Quentin groans into his pillow. He shouldn’t have said anything because they won’t be getting any sleep now, he’s sure. Then Margo’s musings get interrupted by Eliot’s loud yawn, so big his jaw clicks audibly.</p><p>“Okay, I am tabling this but Q,” he looks at her and she’s propped up on an elbow, pointing a finger at him, “I feel like you have theories that you’ve been <em>not sharing,</em> so you’re gonna fix that tomorrow.”</p><p>Quentin rolls his eyes but nods, and tries to settle into his mound of pillows.</p><p>He’s startled by an insistent tug at one of the pillows he’s ended up settled against. Eliot seems to be trying to rip one of them free and when he finally manages, he floats it away somewhere to the other side of the room. Quentin’s hit with a flood of memories of Eliot doing exactly this, almost every evening, their little bedtime ritual of Eliot gently chastising him and Quentin faux complaining about not being allowed pillows in his own home.</p><p>“You know you can’t sleep on that many pillows, your neck would kill you tomorrow,” Eliot murmurs and Quentin’s heart stops because those are the words, almost exactly, and— Margo makes an inquisitive sort of noise at Eliot’s words and Quentin’s heart thuds in his chest, hard, once, twice. He wants to say something, but his throat is too tight and so he slides down the bed a little more and turns his head towards Eliot. This is when Eliot would lean in and kiss him, soft and familiar, lingering. He’d say good night and Quentin would say it back, pressing the words into Eliot’s lips. Here and now, Eliot’s eyes are closed and the half of his face that’s not hidden by his pillow looks relaxed, soft. His arms are bent, forearms crossed and hands twisted in what to Quentin looks like a very unnatural position, but one so familiar that he has to look away or his eyes might actually water, <em>fuck.</em></p><p>Eliot’s wrists hurt every morning, Quentin knows. He bends them awkwardly, and his hands fall asleep during the night, pins and needles sometimes waking him up and the confused noise that he makes then waking up Quentin. Quentin, who knows all this, and knows that it is easily solved, too. When Eliot holds Quentin as they fall asleep instead of hugging himself, when his body knows there is another body in the bed with him, he gravitates towards it, tangles his fingers in the sleep clothes of the person who’s with him.</p><p>A huff of breath stops that particular train of thought.</p><p>“I can <em>hear</em> you thinking,” Eliot mumbles, barely awake, voice muffled by sleep and his pillow.</p><p>Quentin snorts. “What am I thinking, then?” he asks, can’t help it.</p><p>Eliot startles badly and hisses, jerking one of his legs up and closer to his chest, further away from what Quentin would guess was Margo’s foot delivering a swift and painful kick.</p><p>“I don’t know <em>why </em>I expected the two of you would help me sleep better. Instead of fantasizing about being the filling of the Michael and James sandwich, I gotta listen to the two of you,” he hears her complain, very much not under her breath, and then she adds, even louder, “just hold his fucking hand, Q, so that we can <em>finally </em>fucking sleep.”</p><p>Quentin doesn’t know if he should laugh or die of mortification for being told to <em>hold hands with his crush,</em> like they’re in elementary school, but then a hand finds his on top of the covers, and Quentin is smiling, eyes closed with the force of it, and Eliot is saying <em>yeah hold my fucking hand, Coldwater.</em></p><p>~~~</p><p>Jules pops in, literally, when he’s making himself a grilled cheese. She startles him so badly that the perfectly toasted bread slides off his plate and onto the floor. Before it can connect with it in a greasy splat, Jules twists her hand sharply and stops it mid-fall.</p><p>“<em>Jesus,</em>” Quentin says, free hand pressed to his chest, “nice trick.”</p><p>“Just Julia’s fine,” she shoots back with a smirk like she hasn’t made that joke around a thousand times before. Quentin rolls his eyes at her and then watches his grilled cheese land back on his plate.</p><p>He doesn’t know where the plate ends up, too busy making his way to her, hugging her tight. He can feel the tug on his hoodie, knows she’s clutching the material of it in her fists.</p><p>“Hey, Jules,” he says, voice wet, something he wouldn’t be able to hide from her even if he tried, which he doesn’t.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she responds, her voice clear, right there by his ear.</p><p>“Wh— “</p><p>“And I’m glad you’re better, I’m so glad, Q,” she adds, tone gentler.</p><p>“Oh.” Quentin closes his eyes and breathes through it, through the tight feeling in his chest, through the onslaught of emotions. There was so much, once he could feel again, once he could go back and examine stuff — <em>do you mean overthink,</em> he hears Eliot say— and he’s grateful he’s had that opportunity because otherwise this exchange might have gone very differently.</p><p>Therapy’s helped, Quentin knows, and talking about some of it to Eliot has helped, too, but what has made the biggest difference was acknowledging that they have both grown beyond what each of them could ever have imagined for themselves, in good ways and bad, and that it changed them and their relationship. She’s still his Julia, but she’s not his <em>only </em>friend anymore, she’s not <em>only his </em>anymore. He can feel a little stab in his heart when he thinks about having lost their two person world, probably forever, but his chest feels lighter when he considers how much it has expanded beyond just the two of them. They’ve both found people, collected them along their paths, and made each others’ worlds richer for it.</p><p>It’s never going to be the same, he knows that now, and when the panic at having thought that doesn’t arrive, he realizes he’s okay with that. They both deserve to grow and he knows, <em>he knows </em>that they will both make the effort to have the other in their life forever.</p><p>“I should have—” Julia starts, but Quentin jumps in, shaking off the bout of introspection.</p><p>“We all should have done a lot of things.” He lets his arms drop and she steps away. She’s playing with her fingers, he notices absently.</p><p>“I didn’t think it was that bad, Q, if I did, I would’ve—” she looks away from him for a second but looks back, looking Quentin in the eyes, determined, brave, as always, “— I love you, Q, and I want us to be better, I want us to talk again, for real, not just whatever the fuck we did that got us to— “ she waves a hand and makes a face, mouth twisted as if she just sucked on a lemon.</p><p>“I— uh,” Quentin fumbles his words, shakes his sleeve down over his hand, twists it in his fingers, “I don’t think I wanted you to see.” He looks away at the truth of it, hears a sharp intake of breath from Julia. She reaches out, takes his hand, sleeve and all.</p><p>“And I want that too, Jules,” he adds. It’s another first step, he thinks to himself, something they can start building on, or <em>re</em>building on. There is no getting back to what they were before, but he no longer thinks that’s a bad thing, necessarily.</p><p>They stand there, quiet, slumped against the counter and each other, until the front door bangs open and then closed and the front hall is filled with voices.</p><p>“—the last time I go grocery shopping, fuck this,” Quentin hears Margo say and a moment later, Eliot is standing in the living room and kitchen area with grocery bags hanging from his fingers. He’s frozen still, staring at Julia.</p><p>“Julia,” he says, voice unnaturally level.</p><p>“Eliot,” she says, mimicking his tone.</p><p>“Why the hell are you standing in the—“ Margo sees Julia too, then, but only raises an eyebrow and pushes Eliot out of the way so she can put the two bags she’s carrying down on the counter. “El, the alcohol.” She goes to get ice while Eliot <em>Accios</em> the glassware and starts mixing.</p><p>Quentin is a little baffled by the interaction before he realizes this is probably the first time Eliot and Margo have seen Julia since the whole monster-sister-possession-disaster thing. He lets his head drop back and stares at the ceiling for a moment. Julia’s warmth disappears and when Quentin looks back at the scene in front of him, she’s taking her drink from Eliot, putting it down on the kitchen island and stepping closer to him, hands outstretched. Eliot looks only a little surprised, maybe by Julia, maybe by the fact that he’s stepping closer to her and enveloping her in one of his signature hugs. Julia looks positively dwarfed by Eliot’s tall frame and they seem to exchange some words that Quentin can’t quite hear before letting go. Julia looks at Margo, who extends the hand holding her drink in a toast.</p><p>“Wicker,” she says solemnly.</p><p>“Hanson,” Julia replies, toasting with her own drink. “Thank you.”</p><p>Margo inclines her head almost imperceptibly.</p><p>“Q,” Eliot prompts and Quentin’s full attention is on him once more. He’s offering him a drink, something innocuous looking, which is the worst kind of thing, Quentin knows. He takes it anyway, clinks their glasses together while holding eye contact.</p><p>“Grilled cheese?” Eliot asks, his nose scrunched up.</p><p>Quentin shrugs. “You were taking ages.”</p><p>Eliot rolls his eyes, downs his drink and steps closer to Quentin, putting an arm around his shoulders and holding him close against his side. Quentin sips his drink, his body leaning into Eliot. Julia and Margo are discussing something quietly, but Quentin’s attention is on all the grocery bags. He scans them, but can’t see the one bag he expected amongst them.</p><p>“Did you get—”</p><p>“We stopped by on our way to the store but they were all out,” Elito tells him, “I put in an order for you, they should have it tomorrow. They said they’ll text when it’s ready for pick up.”</p><p>Quentin sighs. “Did you get a—”</p><p>“<em>Yes,</em> I got some of the non-specialty stuff, a small bag of it, to tie us over, I’m not <em>suicidal,</em>” Eliot says, pushing away a little so that he can give Quentin a look, eyes huge. Then he realizes what he said and his face goes through an array of emotions in the span of a couple of seconds. Quentin raises his eyebrows.</p><p>“Well, I am, on occasion, and I still wouldn’t dare coming home without coffee, so, yeah,” he tells him with a shrug, bumping his hip against Eliot’s in an attempt to make him relax, to let him know it’s okay. He’s still too tense, but before Quentin can figure out what to say, the girls are turning their way.</p><p>“We have to go see Alice,” Margo tells them.</p><p>Eliot looks at her, then at all the food on the kitchen island. “Now?”</p><p>“You two—” Margo points at him and at Quentin, “—are not going anywhere. Wicker and me, on the other hand, are going to The Library. Julia’s got an idea about Fillory.” She looks at Julia then, who nods, smiles at Quentin.</p><p>“And you don’t need us,” Eliot surmises.</p><p>“That’s right. Bitches get shit done,” she says and turns to Julia, winking at her. Julia smirks in obvious agreement.</p><p>Someone’s phone chimes and Margo claps her hands.</p><p>“Takeout is here, we’re taking half of it with us,” she announces, grabs her phone and heads to the door.</p><p>Quentin looks at Julia, opens his mouth, and then reconsiders. Eliot must be thinking along the same lines, because when Quentin looks up at him he’s shaking his head a little.</p><p>“Do we even wanna know?”</p><p>Julia shrugs. “It’s just an idea. It’s not even like, 12% of a plan.”</p><p>Eliot snorts and Quentin can’t help but smile. “Yeah let’s fucking hope it doesn’t end up with the three of you inadvertently causing half of the universe to—” Eliot shimmies his fingers in front of himself, “—disintegrate.”</p><p>Julia gives him a look. “Even if we did, we’d figure out a way to bring them back.”</p><p>“I’m sure you would.”</p><p>How long would it take, <em>what </em>would it take, though, Quentin thinks, and would it be worth it in the end? He looks away from Jules. Maybe that’s why Margo told them to stay behind. Maybe she could tell Quentin has had the will to fight, to <em>quest,</em> beaten out of him.</p><p>Still.</p><p>“You know we’ll help in any way we can,” Quentin offers.</p><p>“I know, Q,” she says, and for the first time Quentin notices something off about her eyes. They’re—</p><p>“Wicker,” Eliot says, voice faux-scandalized, “did you get a power up?!”</p><p>She smirks, eyes glowing, irises suddenly otherworldly. “Maybe.”</p><p>“Maybe my ass.” Eliot leans forward, letting go of Quentin and leaning against the kitchen island, trying to get a better look at her. “Well, <em>fuck me.</em>”</p><p>“Not really my job, is it,” she shoots back, head tilted just a little, small smile playing on her lips, and then she looks at Quentin and winks. Quentin barely avoids choking on his drink and doesn’t have to respond because Margo reappears.</p><p>“Why are we talking about fucking?” Margo asks while depositing their takeout on the kitchen island, Eliot helpfully making space for it, his back to Quentin. “And <em>fuck </em>this, I miss having people fetch my shit.” She looks into the bags, takes some containers out, replacing them with others, and then pushes one towards Eliot. “Next time we should eat before we go grocery shopping. And before we order take out.”</p><p>Quentin looks at the sheer amount of food on the kitchen island and can’t help but agree.</p><p>Then something occurs to him. He looks at Julia, at her glowing eyes. “Are you even allowed back into The Library?”</p><p>“Their wards can’t stop me,” Julia says.</p><p>“Uh, okay, that’s— disturbing and terrifying, honestly,” Quentin tells her and Julia just shrugs.</p><p>“Once again, do we even want to know?” Eliot asks, and Quentin can’t help but second that. Shit has barely settled down and he does <em>not </em>have the energy to start the vicious cycle all over again.</p><p>“Time’s a-waistin’,” Margo says as she joins Julia, linking their hands. She smiles and bats her eyelashes. “Don’t wait up.”</p><p>And then Julia glows so brightly Quentin has to close his eyes, and when he opens them a second later, they’re both gone.</p><p>“Huh.”</p><p>Eliot doesn’t say anything. He reaches for the bag of takeout, grabs a container and pushes it towards Quentin. Then another one, and another.</p><p>“Uhh.”</p><p>“You need to eat,” Eliot says, not looking at Quentin.</p><p>“My weight in—“ he opens the box to check what it is that Margo ordered, “—spring rolls?”</p><p>Eliot is refusing to look at him, apparently, because he talks to his own container of what looks and smells like pad thai. “You can finish your grilled cheese if this is not to your liking, your majesty.” The haughtiness of his tone has Quentin raising his eyebrows at him in surprise.</p><p>“Uhh, what the fuck, El.” There’s little bite to it, and Quentin congratulates himself for that.</p><p>He keeps looking at Eliot, watches him poke at his noodles, abandon his chopsticks, square his shoulders and finally turn to face Quentin.</p><p>“You could have gone with them,” he says, expression devoid of emotion, eyes inscrutable.</p><p>“Wh—“ Quentin blurts out, and then frowns, throws his hands up towards the now empty space in their kitchen. “You were right here for the whole exchange, El, what the fuck?” He doesn’t know what Eliot is on about. The girls were pretty clear about not needing them, so what—</p><p>Eliot, somehow, makes himself look even taller. His chin is turned up just so, and he’s looking somewhere behind Quentin. “I’m sure they’d find a place for you on the Quest.”</p><p>Quentin really truly wishes he was dramatic enough to be able to pull off a real life facepalm.</p><p>“You think I want to go on another fucking Quest?” he asks Eliot instead, voice slightly high pitched and incredulous enough to make Eliot’s posture loosen a little, his chin dip down, his composure crack.</p><p>He looks away and says, under his breath. “Apparently not.”</p><p>Quentin tries, he really does, to take a couple of deep breaths and calm down, but.</p><p>“The last Quest almost killed me,” he says, and somehow his voice comes out deceptively calm and level, which makes Eliot freeze and look at him, eyes slightly wide. “It almost killed <em>you,</em>” he adds, to see if that will drive the point home, “which, if you missed that memo as well, I still have nightmares about—” just last night he dreamt about Eliot, covered in blood, face too pale, limbs too still, “—and you think I want to go on another one?”</p><p>Eliot’s eyes are searching his face and Quentin stands there, let’s himself be examined. What does he have to lose? He’s already laid all his cards on the table in the throne room, then again when saving Eliot from the Monster. There’s nothing more of him to—</p><p>“You,” Eliot says, slowly, as if he’s trying to come to terms with what’s coming out of his mouth, “don’t want to go on another Quest.”</p><p>“I really don’t,” Quentin confirms and sees something shift in Eliot, as if the penny’s finally dropped. As if there even was a penny that <em>needed </em>to be dropped, Quentin thinks, but oh well. He knows Eliot, knows that he’s most probably talked himself into and out of this exact conversation a thousand times in the last couple of weeks.</p><p>“You want to be here,” Eliot says, and waits for Quentin to nod before he adds, “with me.”</p><p>Quentin makes a face which he hopes conveys the amount of <em>obviously </em>he is feeling.</p><p>“Use your words, Coldwater,” Eliot says.</p><p>“Really.”</p><p>“<em>Yes,</em>” Eliot insists, leaning a little towards Quentin, “if you haven’t noticed—“ he waves a hand around to indicate their surroundings, “we are really really <em>exceptionally </em>bad at us, in this particular timeline.”</p><p>“I thought that wasn’t <em>us,</em> in the other timeline,” Quentin says, because he can’t help it. The jab hits home and Eliot draws a quick breath, leans back. Quentin drags a hand through his hair, looks away from Eliot at all the food that’s going cold. “We should put this—“</p><p>“No,” Eliot stops him with a hand on Quentin’s forearm. Quentin takes a deep, bracing breath and turns back to face him. His eyes are wide and a little wet. “I didn’t—“ he says and doesn’t seem to be able to finish the thought.</p><p>Quentin escapes the grip on his forearm easily and before Eliot can misunderstand, takes his hand, links their fingers. Eliot swallows, looks at their hands, up at Quentin.</p><p>“I thought I was a consolation prize,” he says, wet and unsteady with emotion, and Quentin wants to jump in but Eliot shakes his head a little and continues, “I thought I was convenient, the easy one, available, a <em>sure thing.</em>” He says the last one with this horrible expression on his face that makes Quentin’s heart twist and his stomach feel cold and laden. He squeezes Eliot’s hand, and can feel his own eyes water, his throat getting tight.</p><p>Eliot clears his throat, eyes jumping around the room before landing back on Quentin.</p><p>“There was always someone else,” he pushes through, even though he looks like he’d rather be doing anything else, “and then there’s Alice, the love of your—“</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“I— what?” Eliot asks, looking slightly thrown at being interrupted.</p><p>“She’s not,” Quentin tells him, clearing his throat to get his voice to sound at least halfway to normal, “I loved her, yeah, but she’s not the love of my life, El, come on, you have to know that.” How can he possibly not know that?</p><p>“How <em>could </em>I know that?” Eliot shoots back, absolutely baffled and more than a little angry about it.</p><p>“How could you <em>not?</em>” Quentin wants to poke at Eliot’s chest, but their hands are still linked. Eliot’s free hand is covering his eyes, his shoulders are slumped, hip leaning against the edge of the kitchen island. Quentin tugs at his hand, a little <em>I’m right here,</em> a little <em>I’m not going anywhere.</em></p><p>Eliot drops his hand from his face and looks at the food on the kitchen island.</p><p>“I was supposed to be braver, but I’m fucking it all up, <em>again.</em>” He takes a fortifying breath, squares his shoulders, lets go of Quentin’s hand and then slowly brings his hands up, cradles Quentin’s face in them.</p><p>“Quentin.” He seems to be looking at Quentin as if this is the last time he’ll get the chance, eyes eating up Quentin’s face, thumbs moving gently over Quentin’s stubble. Quentin thinks he might be shaking, his own hands unable to decide if they want to hold on to Eliot’s wrists or slide under his open vest to settle on his waist. It’s too much, Quentin thinks, knowing that he maybe can—</p><p>“Q,” Eliot says again, voice shaky, “I fucking love you, and I want us to spend the rest of our lives together, <em>again.</em>”</p><p>Quentin’s heart stops and then starts again, off-rhythm. His chest hurts from the force of the irregular beats.</p><p>He clears his throat, keeps holding onto Eliot.</p><p>“I thought we were already doing that.”</p><p>Eliot looks taken aback and then he seems to notice the tilt to Quentin’s lips.</p><p>“Oh you are an <em>asshole,</em> Coldwater, I take it ba—“</p><p>“Nope, no takebacks, you fucking love me and we will spend the rest of our lives together, <em>again,</em> you said it, it’s on record now,” Quentin says and shrugs his shoulders in a little <em>what can you do.</em> But he can’t hold his unaffected expression for long, is impressed with himself for being able to even pull off this level of flippant. His smile breaks free, and he pushes into Eliot’s hands until Eliot gets it and draws him closer, hugs him to his chest. Quentin hides his face against Eliot’s shoulder, then adjusts so that he can drag the stubble on his chin up Eliot’s neck. Eliot shivers.</p><p>“Hey, this is a serious moment!”</p><p>Quentin makes sure Eliot can feel his stubble when he smiles.</p><p>Quentin feels like he could stand here for hours and never feel like he’s had enough of this, but little while later Eliot clears his throat and breaks the silence.</p><p>“So, the love of—”</p><p>“You,” Quentin says, simple as that, and squeezes Eliot a little tighter.</p><p>“—your life—” Eliot finishes his thought and then adds, with his mouth pressed against Quentin’s temple, as Quentin’s response sinks in, “<em>Jesus.</em>” His fingers shake as they find the nape of Quentin’s neck.</p><p>Quentin pushes away from him a little, just so he can see his face.</p><p>“You had to know that,” Quentin tells him, his voice soft but a little accusing, maybe even a little hurt.</p><p>“I <em>hoped,</em>” Eliot corrects him, and looks away, lips pressed into a thin line. When he looks back, his eyes betray him, as they so often do. “We both know how dangerous that is, so I tried to squash it, to not think about it,” he pauses and looks away from Quentin’s eyes, “to not feed it or encourage it.”</p><p>He doesn’t want to say it, and Quentin doesn’t need to hear it. That’s the fundamental difference between them. Quentin’s stupid enough to go out and shoot his shot with his heart in the palms of his hands like an offering, but Eliot, Eliot would rather keep it close to himself, the little that he thinks there’s left of it, and protect it from more harm. Quentin looks at him, thinks about all the love Eliot has for so many people, how ready he was to offer friendship and affection to Quentin on the very first day they met.</p><p>They’ve all been through so much, have <em>changed </em>so much.</p><p>And while some things don’t need to be said out loud, some do.</p><p>“Well, now you know,” Quentin tells Eliot, who’s still looking at him, and before he can ask, adds, “you’re the love of my life.”</p><p>Eliot smiles but then schools his expression into one of sympathy. “Sucks to be you, Coldwater.”</p><p>Quentin snorts, but. “I mean, sometimes, but uh, when it comes to this? It mostly really doesn’t.”</p><p>Eliot’s walls are still not up and Quentin sees the last of his hesitation melt away. The hand that travelled from the nape of his neck to the small of his back moves with a suggestion of pressure and Quentin steps closer, leaning his head back just so and his eyes find Eliot’s lips. Eliot lets go of his hand and runs his fingers up Quentin’s jaw until they’re buried in his hair and his head’s being tilted to Eliot’s exact liking.</p><p>Quentin can feel Eliot’s heart beating, just as fast and hard as his own, but then something pops and the smell of deliciousness fills the air. Ah, the stasis spell on their food. His lips tick up at the corners.</p><p>“The food—”</p><p>“Shut. <em>Up.</em>”</p><p>There’s a thumb pressing on his bottom lip and Quentin closes his eyes with a sigh and runs his tongue over it, licking Eliot’s thumb in the process and trying to keep his expression as innocent as he can.</p><p>“Uh huh,” Eliot murmurs, “I’m not buying the innocent act.”</p><p>Quentin opens his eyes and Eliot is right there, filling his entire field of vision. A lock of hair is artfully arranged to fall over his forehead and Quentin doesn’t stop his fingers when they itch to mess that up, to try and push the curl back. He runs his fingers through Eliot’s hair, product and all, and watches Eliot close his eyes.</p><p>“El?”</p><p>“Mm?”</p><p>“Kiss me.”</p><p>Eliot’s eyes take a second to open. Quentin knows there’s no rush, but he still <em>wants.</em> His skin is tingling with it but he’s calm otherwise, any nervousness he might have felt settled by the conversation they’ve just had. Eliot keeps watching him, his thumb moving gently on Quentin’s jaw. When he leans in, Quentin huffs out a breath.</p><p>He presses a kiss to Quentin’s forehead.</p><p>He really wants to say something but stops short when Eliot continues, kissing one cheek, then the other, fingers soft points of pressure in Quentin’s hair. He presses his nose to Quentin’s and leans in further, touching their foreheads together. With Eliot’s hands on him, with Eliot so close, Quentin’s whole chest feels warm.</p><p>The pressure in the room changes and Quantin feels Eliot tense against him. Before either of them can move, Margo materializes in the same spot she’s disappeared from. Quentin only jumps back a little bit, mostly thanks to Eliot’s arms, which are holding him in place.</p><p>“What the fuck, Bambi.”</p><p>Margo looks pale, a little green around the edges.</p><p>“Don’t ever let her send you somewhere alone,” she tells them, voice strained, “it fucking sucks.”</p><p>“Uhh,” Quentin adds intelligently.</p><p>Margo waves a hand. “Julia popped off to gather ingredients and Alice is reading up on stuff and because we’re all three of us responsible bitches, we agreed that we’ll get a good night’s sleep before we go off questing again.”</p><p>Quentin makes a disbelieving noise and sees Eliot raise an eyebrow.</p><p>“Whatever,” Margo shoots their way and starts looking through the take out containers.</p><p>“Didn’t you take yours with you?” Eliot tells her as he steals the one she just popped open and holds it out of her reach.</p><p>“Turns out food doesn’t transport well on the Julia train.”</p><p>“Uh huh,” Eliot says and then he looks at Quentin, eyes softening. He gathers all the food and turns his back to them, leaving for the living room.</p><p>Quentin’s eyes find Margo, who’s looking at him, expression softer than he’s seen it in a while. It makes him look away, look down at his hands. He hears her move closer, sees her lean against the kitchen island from the corner of his eye. She pokes him quite sharply in the ribs and he makes an involuntary noise, moves away, just out of reach.</p><p>“Did he—” she waves a hand towards where Eliot now is, raising her eyebrows.</p><p>Quentin thinks about playing dumb but her expression makes him reconsider. Something about the gentle tilt to her lips, her open posture. She’s Margo.</p><p>“Yeah, we, uh, cleared things up,” he tells her, looking down at his hands again.</p><p>She pokes him in the side again to make him look at her. Once he makes eye contact, she points the finger right at his face.</p><p>“Don’t fuck it up,” she whispers fiercely. She waits for him to nod and then jumps up a little bit, winding her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a hug.</p><p>“What the fuck are you two doing in there, the food is gonna be completely cold,” Eliot shouts from the living room.</p><p>“Coming!” Margo shouts back, right into Quentin’s ear.</p><p>~~~</p><p>They’re all different, now, after all of it, after everything, but Quentin thinks <em>that’s life,</em> you’re never the same at two points in time. Sandwiched on a sofa between Eliot and Margo, he notices Margo scrunching her nose at the fresh cilantro in her pad thai and then sees it float away as Eliot gently extracts it from the noodles, and he can’t help but think that he’s okay with that.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you for reading, comments and kudos are are &lt;3 and every single one gives me a shot of serotonin!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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